


The Last Piece

by acrownofwinterroses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, very pro targaryen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:26:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrownofwinterroses/pseuds/acrownofwinterroses
Summary: Having run out of money and favour, Viserys is forced to resort to selling Rhaella's crown to a market-stall owner in Pentos. Dany watches as he struggles to let go, and thinks of the mother she never knew, and the unexpectedly kind stall owner reminds them of what the last piece of the Targaryen dynasty really is.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	The Last Piece

Mother. “Mother” was unfamiliar to her. 

The word, no. The word was one that had lived in her mind for years, ever since she could remember. It was a word that took permeated head every time her mind wandered. In the blank spaces between thoughts, “Mother” resided, never letting her dreams drift far from the sorrow that had brought her into this bleak world. 

But Mother, the person - Dany had never had one of those. If she tried very hard she could picture her, a woman with bright, iridescent violet eyes like Viserys, thick, gossamer, silver hair like her own, and a kind, gentle smile, stolen from the friendly face of Ser Willem Darry. 

Ser Willem. The thought of him still made tears prick the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill over onto her pale, hollow cheeks. His face would be green and grey and drooping now, crumbling into dust, no longer smiling. Just like her mother’s, but Dany didn’t like to think of that. 

Rhaella. It was a beautiful name, a name that sounded warm and pretty and happy.

Rhaella, Viserys had said, his voice thick and choked with suppressed emotion. “Queen Rhaella.” 

“Yes, I know,” replied the stall owner, kindly. “Queen Rhaella Targaryen, wife of the ma- the king, Aerys.” 

He was a scrawny man, with spiky ginger hair and an unflattering smattering of freckles slapped haphazardly across his face. 

“I’ve heard that she was beautiful.”

“She was,” Viserys replied shortly.  
Dany had never seen him like this before. He was clutching the crown like a mother clutching her newborn child, the sharp edges of the glittering jewels digging into his skin. His voice was high and tremulous, his face screwed up, his eyes not scrutinising or glaring at her, but staring fixedly on the sunlight glinting on the tarnished gold. 

“You alright, son?” The ginger-haired stall owner asked, in soft tones.

“I’m not your son,” Viserys replied. “I am the King’s son. I am the rightful ruler of the-the of the s-seven k-kingdoms.” 

“Rulers are allowed to be sad too.”

“Mother was sad sometimes,” her brother said, his eyes glassy, staring away from them at something she couldn’t see. “But sh-she always said … said that I made her happy. “  
And then came something Dany had never expected. She felt her mouth open in surprise, her jaw dropped. She snapped it shut quickly, fearing that Viserys would be angry with her. Tears were falling down her brother’s face, the face that was so often contorted in anger, unwavering in its inability to be human. His bright purple eyes were glistening. 

“Me, and Rhaegar, and Rhaenys and Aegon. She said she couldn’t be unhappy when she had us.” 

He paused. 

“And you as well. Before you were born, she talked about how happy it made her feel when you kicked inside her. How excited she was to meet you.” 

Dany allowed the tears that had been gathering since the moment he started to talk of their mother to spill freely. She knew she would not be reprimanded for them this time.  
The stall owner was crying too. He was blinking hard, looking up at the ceiling, but his cheeks were wet and his pale skin was red and blotchy. 

“You poor, poor children. Poor things, the lot of you. When I think of that Dornish girl .. poor lamb.” 

“She was no lamb,” Viserys said, in an even quieter voice. “She fought him, I know she did. I know she did.” 

“Travellin’ salesman once told me that the Mountain has a scratch on his cheek that neither love nor money can heal. Said that the Princess Elia dug her nails in so fiercely trying to shake him off that she left it on him permanently. Wouldn’t die without leaving a mark for the world to remember how she’d gone.” 

“Shut up.” Viserys said suddenly. He was clutching the crown even harder. “Shut up.”  
He began to shake.  
“Here, “ the man said, rushing forward. He put an arm around Viserys’ shoulders. For a moment, her brother resisted, his usual aversion to any kind of emotion or affection. Dany often thought that that was why people never liked him. He never let anyone be nice to him, answering kindness with conceit and contempt. Then suddenly, he collapsed, howling. Dany was sobbing too, gulpy, hiccupy sobs that left her throat sore. No one had ever tried to console them before. People only greeted them with suspicion or fear. It was the first time in a long time that they had been treated like children, instead of rogues or thieves.

“You poor poor things. You poor poor things. All this heartbreak because that poor young lad took a fancy to the poor wolf girl.” 

Viserys’ next sob was even louder, even more anguished at the mention of their brother. 

“He’d be so ashamed of me,” he gasped. 

“No he wouldn’t,” the stall owner insisted.  
Yes he would, whispered a voice in Dany’s head, the voice that could make her dangerously brave, the voice that whispered things to her in her darkest hours, the voice that reminded her to keep going, pushing, walking, that she was the blood of the dragon, that someday it would get better. The voice that made her want to stand up to Viserys, to hit him back. 

When strangers talked of Rhaegar, they told different stories, so that Dany was always muddled, but the same few words had always been used.  
Kind. Clever. Brave. Sad. Just.  
Viserys may have been sad, certaily - he walked in a veil of gloom, carrying a torch of rage, the only thing that motivated him to keep going - but he was not kind or clever or brave or just. 

“Father … father wouldn’t want me to sell it,” he said, looking down at it, tracing his weathered thumb over the intricate filigree, the shape of the dragon’s neck. 

“Mother would.” said Dany. 

They both looked at her. She couldn’t tell them how she knew - but Rhaella Targaryen would want her children safe and well. Father may have cared about crowns, but Mother, Dany thought, Mother didn’t seem like the sort to care about them terribly much. 

“We have no choice, Viserys. She wouldn’t want us to starve.”  
“You don’t know that,” he replied - and there it was, a cold shiver of fear trickling down her spine, at the note of anger that was returning to his voice.  
“You never knew her. You never knew any of them.” 

“Leave her alone, lad, she’s right,” It was the gangly stall owner, coming to her rescue. 

“You just want the crown,” Viserys said. His rage was rapidly returning. 

“Actually, I don’t know if I do,” the man said, in gentle, but firm tones. “I rarely get customers with that much gold in their pockets. And besides, who’d be wearing it? It’s Targaryen through and through, just like yerselves, there’d be no mistaking it.” 

“I can’t bear the thought of someone else in her crown.” muttered Viserys. 

“Whoever it is will melt it down and turn it into something else,” Dany offered, in a small voice. 

“And is that supposed to be a good thing?” he hissed. “The last piece of the Targaryen dynasty, melted down for bracelets and brooches and other gaudy ornaments, to adorn common filth.” When he said the last words, they were so contemptuous that he almost spat. Dany hated when he did that. It turned her stomach.

“Come off it,” the man replied. His tone was so nonchalant that it took them both by surprise. Visery’s thick eyebrows knotted together, and Dany felt her knees knocking, her hands shaking, her heart beating loud and fast. She felt light-headed. The nice, smiling, ginger-haired stall owner was going to wake the dragon.

“That’s far from the last piece. Look at this coin.” He held one up. It winked, in the sunlight, the embossed dragon proud and fearless. “The Usurper may have knocked your lot off the throne, but he has a lot of work to do if he wants to get you out of his kingdom.” 

He smiled. “The old lady, lives across from me, she’s Dornish. Prays for your little niece and nephew every day, and their mother. Cried when she heard of it. She won’t accept the Usurper as king of the seven kingdoms. Says he’s a monster, says Prince Rhaegar should have been king."

“At the pub a couple streets away, I met a man once who says he was in an establishment in King’s Landing when a group of Baratheon men entered, and one fella got up and spat at them. Said ‘e was a Targaryen loyalist and that they were liars and pretenders, and that the Iron Throne would rust with Robert Baratheon’s falseness on it. An’ the rest o’ the pub stood up and clapped for him.” 

“And then there’s me, “ he grinned. “I’m Westerosi meself. Fought on the Trident, I did. Well, the edge of it anyway. Had to make a quick getaway, though, the Lannisters were rounding us up, see. Could’ve been pardoned if I wanted to, and I thought about it, but then I heard that he’d pardoned the Mountain. Couldn’t do it then. So me and my Elyane went to the septon, and he helped us out. Married us quick, and we hopped on the next boat to Pentos, with a box full o’ trinkets that i had … procured over the course of some time. Then I set up here. “

He reached out a hand and swept the contents of the table into a box, the beads, the scrolls, the pins and trinkets. Then , with a flourish, he flipped the fabric that covered it around. 

It was a deep navy, as inky black as the waters surrounding a dying kraken. Embroidered in crimson thread was a three-headed dragon, spewing golden fire. 

“I’ve got another flag upstairs, but it’s sewn on here too,” he tapped his chest bashfully. “But you… it’s in your blood. You are the last pieces of the Targaryen dynasty, not some crown. You are, King Viserys, and you ... “ 

The look he gave her was more solemn, more serious, with more… respect to it? He had a look in his eyes, as if he was trying to tell her something, but …  
“Princess Daenerys. You are the last dragons. And I will gladly take your crown, at double the price. When you come into your kingdom, you’ll remember me as making sure you were fed.” 

Viserys traced the edge of a golden dragon’s wing, his mouth moving noiselessly.

“The last dragons.”  
“Yes, I’ll do it, “ he lurched forward, suddenlt, as if he was afraid that if he didn't do it immediately he never would, (which was probably the case, Dany thought) and gently, reverently, pressed the crown into the Westerosi man's hands, who cradled it as gently as if it were a newborn. A stray tear ran down his cheek, and his hands were shaking as he did so, but he stuck his chin out and held his head high, firm and resolute. The man opened a chest and pulled out two clinking sacks of golden coins. 

“Fire and blood,” he said, dumping them into Viserys’ arms. 

“Fire and blood,” Viserys recited fervently. 

“Fire and blood,” Dany said, and thought of her mother.


End file.
